


THE THINGS YOU SAY OUT LOUD Or: Deduce me, John, like one of your French girls.

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Sherlock, Choking, Dirty Talk, Domination, Light BDSM, M/M, One Shot, Submission, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows Sherlock is submissive and uses his words to get the detective up against the wall, John's tongue in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE THINGS YOU SAY OUT LOUD Or: Deduce me, John, like one of your French girls.

THE THINGS YOU SAY OUT LOUD

Or: Deduce me, John, like one of your French girls.

It started in the lift, going up to Lestrade’s office in NSY. John had on his new camel coloured wool coat, bought the day before from an op-shop. John was facing the back of the lift, concentrating on the phone in his hand, which he was madly typing on with one thumb. Sherlock was amazed at the doctor’s proficiency with a single digit to type with. John’s other hand had swept the coat back from his hip, his fingers in the pocket of his trousers.

John’s voice, when it came, was low, like a murmur. It took Sherlock a second to realise the Doctor was speaking.

“I would run my hand up your neck to fist my hand in the hair back of your head.”

Sherlock frowned a little, a tiny bit confused.

“I would force your head back so I can fucking EAT that neck of yours, mark it with my teeth, it’s so perfect and smooth. I’d see it bruised just from my mouth.”

Then the doors opened, and John whirled and strolled out, all the time never lifting his eyes from his ‘phone.

Sherlock was nearly stuck in the doors as they began closing before he had thought to actually leave the lift.

The next time was at a crime scene. Sherlock was crouched down, eyes staring at the face of the victim. John crouched next to him, and Sherlock opened his mouth to ask the usual ‘what do you see Doctor’, but John got in first. That same low murmur, face averted from Sherlock, looking at the shoes of the dead man, for all the world appearing to be discussing the situation with the Consulting detective.

“I would force your back against the wall, press myself to you, hold your hands pinned so you could not wriggle away, and feel your bony wrists twist in my grip. Held like that, so hard against me, I could do anything to you Sherlock and you’d let me.”

Then John stood and wandered over to Greg, leaving Sherlock confused and this time a little breathless.

Sherlock became a bit nervous, now, when John was with him. He was not sure when he was going to say those…things…to him. He was not even sure WHY John was saying those things to him, or why they affected his transport so very VERY deeply. 

A day later, in Mycroft’s office, waiting to see the Government man over some trifling money matter, John spoke in that voice again.

“I would have you so hot and naked and wet beneath me, begging me to touch you in that voice of yours, and if you are sweet enough, I just might do it.”

When Mycroft came in then he inquired as to Sherlock’s health and Sherlock was quite snippy with his brother. John was silent and straight faced.

John’s words came to him at night, alone, when he found it hard to sleep. Words like “Hot…Hard…Force….Bruise…Marked…Beg…” Sherlock found he was hard and had to relieve himself manually for the first time in years, silent in the dark but with John’s name whispered on his lips.

Then, there came a press conference to congratulate Sherlock for recovering a lost sculpture worth three million dollars. While people were clapping their appreciation, John’s voice came from behind, hot in his ear.

“What would my fat cock look like with your soft pink lips wrapped around it, your throat open to me like a wet hole for me to fuck until I came in hot spurts down the back of your tongue?”

“Jesus!” Sherlock hissed, his face flaming, teeth gritting in a fake smile as cameras flashed. Later, he would be told he looked so humble blushing like that. Sherlock was merely surprised he had enough blood to heat his cheeks and make his cock rock hard at the same time.

When he looked for John after the media had left, the Doctor was drinking champagne and chatting to a pretty constable, looking for all the world like Sherlock was the last thing on his mind.

Sherlock succumbed to self-abuse again that night, picturing his throat being roughly fucked by the so-called fat cock of a certain Doctor Watson.

Three nights later there was mad running through the streets of east London, a murderer mere steps ahead of them. The night was dark, it had been raining, so the streets were slippery and cold. It was adrenalin that kept them going, that and the need to see justice done.

The murderer led them to an abandoned warehouse, but when the duo got there they had to stop, catch their breath. They had no idea which way the guy had gone. John got his gun out, clicked the safety off and held it pointed upwards. He nodded for Sherlock to go first and he quickly followed.

They crept silently past old pallets stacked and rotting, the concrete beneath their feet wet and slick. In the distance came sirens. Lestrade and his officers, on the ball as usual. 

Suddenly there came shots from the darkness in the warehouse, and John shoved Sherlock into the nearest storage cupboard. He sent a few shots of his own back into the darkness, then slammed into the dark cupboard as well, forcing the door shut behind him.

It was pitch black. They were squashed close together, chest to chest. Sherlock suddenly became very VERY aware of EVERYTHING…

From the distance Lestrade’s team could be heard shouting, making demands, and the villain was roaring back. 

But all Sherlock could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears. He was safe here, the killer was about to be apprehended, and he was squeezed into a dark, tight space with a very awake sense of sexual submission. John could do ANYTHING to him now and Sherlock knew he’d say yes.

Silently Sherlock begged for John not to say anything. This was too intimate, too close, too—

“Your beautiful lips, pressed to mine in a filthy kiss, wet with tongue and sharp bites.” John murmured, his voice gravelly in the darkness. “You would taste of heat and need, and your mouth would be so hot for me.”

Sherlock’s breathing hitched and his neck pulse pounded. He had absolutely nothing to say but oh, he wanted that kiss, he ACHED for it.

John leaned forward, his mouth mere millimetres from Sherlock’s own.

“And you would OPEN for me…” he whispered.

“Sherlock! Doctor Watson!” Came Gregs voice then, shouting from very close by.

Sherlock was confused as to how he felt when Lestrade found them and tumbled them out of the cupboard, especially when what Sherlock had thought was John’s gun was actually the doctor’s hard cock pressed to his thigh.

Sherlock was a mess when they got home, but John merely went for a shower, as if it was all in a day’s work. Sherlock began to wonder if the words he was hearing were in his head, was he imaging them, and if so, why?

He scurried to his room, fell onto his bed and curled up in his blankets, trying not to whimper with confusion and lust.

He was bent over the microscope in the morning, freshly showered and in a clean crisp shirt. John was suddenly there, tea in his hand. Sherlock stiffened a second before John stepped up behind him. He had not realised John was even up.

“You always smell so delicious Sherlock.” He said, his voice once again that low timbre saved just for these secret conversations. “So very sweet…I wonder what the skin behind your ear would taste like on the tip of my tongue.”

Sherlock leapt up from the table, jarring the scope and making the chair fall back to the linoleum kitchen floor. His eyes were wide and his nearly-dry hair dropped into them as he backed away.

John merely sipped his tea, grinning away in his grey t-shirt, pyjamas and robe.

“What…“ Sherlock choked, then swallowed, using his hands to shove his fringe from his face. “What are you DOING!!??” he hissed.

John, still grinning, set his cup down and then stretched luxuriously, like a cat, his T-shirt riding up to display the lower half of his belly. Sherlock’s eyes went there and when he realised he was meant to, he bit his lips and frowned, raising his face to John’s.

“I am quite cute for a man approaching middle age.” John said, smiling, voice dropping again. “Don’t you think?” He ran his hand under his shirt, caressing himself where Sherlock had been looking mere seconds ago.

“John are you…flirting…with me?”

John stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock’s forearms. He pulled the lanky man to him.

“You don’t like it?” He asked, in that lovely low secret voice again, eyes wide and blue and clear.

“I’m….honestly John I am really not sure…” Sherlock said, but didn’t pull his arms away, just allowed the touch.

“God you really smell wonderful.” Was all John said, eyes wandering all over Sherlock’s face and down his throat, mouth slowly opening as if he wanted to devour Sherlock whole. It was heady and Sherlock found he rather liked being looked at like that. By John. Who wanted him in a sexual way.

“John…I am not…you are making me…John…” Sherlock stammered. “….please….” he added, his voice gone husky.

“Tell me no Sherlock….tell me no or I’m going to take your mouth with mine and kiss you.” John said then, eyes finally back up to Sherlock’s own, nearly all the blue gone as his pupils widened with need. He WANTED Sherlock.

Sherlock spoke before he even had any time to analyse himself.

“Do it, John. Kiss me.”

John surged forward, pressing his compact body to Sherlock’s, pushing the man back against a wall, sliding his hands to the detectives wrists as he did so, gripping hard. He slammed his chest to Sherlock’s and smashed his mouth to those perfect perfect lips. Sherlock, genius that he was, kept up with this sudden new data, the heat and body placement, the grip and John’s hot mouth on his. He found himself opening his lips, taking Johns tongue into his mouth and GRINDING his mouth to Johns equally as aggressive one.

Sherlock loved it. He LOVED kissing John Watson. He had, of course, kissed before. Boys, Girls, in high school and university, for cases and one time when he was drunk. He had NEVER been kissed like John Watson was kissing him now, all lips and tongue and aggression, heat and want and sweetness. John was practically GROWLING, and Sherlock was making yummy noises of his own. It felt so damn good!

John rubbed up against Sherlock, just once, then pressed the detectives captured wrists hard into the wall, pinning him with his whole muscular frame. Sherlock loved it, loved being held there tight by Johns whole body. He practically bit at John then, and John parried back with his clever tongue, delving and sliding, all heat and drive.

Sherlock had to stop, to breathe. He snapped his head back into the wall, eyes closed, sucking in a deep breath. He choked it off when John’s mouth was suddenly on his throat, biting at his skin as the mad doctor had promised, sucking and marking and yes, eating! It was painfully exquisite and Sherlock’s legs went wobbly.

“Christ John!” Sherlock moaned, arching into John’s body, feeling so damn sexy under the heated need of John Watson. John’s mouth didn’t stop its assault, until Sherlock was all but whimpering and his whole throat was a tingled mess of bites and bruising.

“God, Sherlock…horizontal, I want you on your back!” John gasped, moving off Sherlock who sagged.

“I can’t…my legs don’t work…” Sherlock gasped. “I can’t see…” It was true, he was nearly blind with lust and sensation. John merely tossed the git over his shoulder and fireman-carried him to his own bedroom. He dumped Sherlock onto the bed and followed, leaping on him before Sherlock could even be impressed by the doctor’s manly display of strength.

John’s mouth was on his again, fingers tangled in Sherlock’s wild hair. Sherlock moaned, rolling his eyes closed and responding in kind to John’s urgent lips. Then he gasped and groaned and kissed harder. John had pulled his hair, hard, tightened it in his fists, and the pain went straight to Sherlock’s groin.

“Of course you like that!” John gasped into Sherlock’s swollen mouth. “As if you could get any more damned attractive, you like pain too!”

“GOD John, please!” Sherlock whined, rubbing his head back and forth against the mattress, making Johns hands pull at the roots of his hair again. “Ah Christ!”

John forced Sherlock’s head to the side and this time TRULY went to town on the detective’s fine white skin. He bit with his whole mouth, he sucked at great swathes of skin, and he ravaged and attacked and used his teeth until Sherlock was practically sobbing. The pain was wonderful, the tearing of his hair and the ravishment of his neck. He needed this, wanted it, had begged so many partners over the years but nobody had pushed this far, taken it to this level before. John Watson could, and would, and was…

John yanked his hands from Sherlock’s hair and used them to rip open the detective’s thin white shirt. Buttons flew and the sound of them pinging and falling all over the room made Sherlock moan and arch, exposed for John to do what he wanted.

John went straight for the nipples. He sucked one so hard Sherlock silent screamed, arching and then falling back again, not even able to catch his breath before he arched under Johns attack on his other nipple. Then the doctor used his teeth and pinching fingers until Sherlock once again was almost sobbing.

John stopped the assault suddenly, clamping one hand to Sherlock’s windpipe and the other one to Sherlock’s hot, hard cock, trapped in his trousers.

“So hard for me Sherlock, so fucking hard and hot and wet for me. Christ you fucking gorgeous thing, I can FEEL you!” 

John ran his hand up and down Sherlock’s cock, pressing it hard and rubbing at him roughly. Sherlock moaned, and kicked his legs like a child having a tantrum, arching his hips into John’s hand, practically fucking the doctor’s palm. He managed to take the wrist of Johns other hand, the one choking him, in his own hands and RAMMED the doctor’s fingers deeper into the skin of his throat, causing him to see stars and choke desperately. Gods be praised but John did not pull back, merely hissed and rubbed at Sherlock’s cock harder, faster.

“Christ you fucking sick little thing, you love being manhandled like this, the pain and the choking, you dirty fuck, you need to be taken rough like this, you need me to hurt you and choke you and take you don’t you…”

The words were mixing in with his own desperate need to come and to breathe, in that order. John had the power to do both. The maddening friction of his cock trapped in his trousers, rubbing up against John’s hand, the spots before his eyes and the thrumming of his pulse had him high pitched gasping and whimpering and begging with nonsense words until John finally put his mouth to Sherlock’s ear and whispered:

“You filthy fucking whore.”

Sherlock screamed and arched and shoved Johns hand into his throat and then he was coming and coming, in his own trousers, hot against the flat of Johns hand pressed against him. He gargled and gasped and writhed until finally he fell boneless against the mattress, nearly passed out from lack of blood, air, and the staggering orgasm he had just endured.

John let his throat go, and removed his hand from Sherlock’s groin. A blanket was thrown over his body and then his head was being gathered up in strong arms. John was holding him, caressing him, soothing him, and Sherlock had not felt so alive in years.

“Christ Sherlock, that was magic!” John whispered. “I knew you were dirty, I just knew it.”

Sherlock was happy with the amount of happy in John’s voice and would have said so had he not been claimed by sleep the very next second.

John held him all morning and when it came time to talk it turned out that everything was fine. Just fine…

#


End file.
